Silent Linguistics
by ingrid-matthews
Summary: ***slash*** (Clark/Lex) The language of flowers.


Silent Linguistics 

by ingrid

* * *

~&~ 

The summer sun shone brightly over Martha Kent's flower garden, sparkling against a riotous acre of blooms of so many different varieties, Clark wasn't sure even _she_ knew exactly what was hidden in there. Martha Kent always took pride her knowledge of botany, so much so that she'd raised Clark half in the garden, explaining the flowers every year -- their growth cycles, their seasonal habits as well as their symbolism. 

"Every flower means something," she'd tell a then-little Clark, plucking stems from the soil and putting them in his hands or the top buttonhole of his plaid shirt or if she was feeling mischievous, she'd tuck some behind his ear, laughing when he pouted and flung them away with a wild shake of his head. "In the old days, when you wanted to give someone a message without putting it into words, you'd send them certain flowers." 

"Like what?" he'd ask, keeping a careful eye on her hands, making sure they didn't go anywhere near his ears. 

"Well, let's say you wanted to tell your little boy you loved him." Stooping low, she gathered a small handful of cinquefoil, removed a tie from her hair to bind them and presented Clark with the result. "These flowers represent a mother's love." 

"Oh," replied Clark, accepting them shyly. "Thank you." 

"You're welcome, baby. You know, of course," she whispered conspiratorially. "That bunch isn't nearly big enough. Then again, there aren't enough flowers in the world to show all the love I have for you." He turned red again and she laughed gaily. "But it's the thought that counts." 

It was, decided Clark, as he stood in his mother's garden many years later, her gift pressed into a heavy book still sitting somewhere in his Fortress. Remembering it and how it made him feel, Clark knelt down and examined a sparse bloom of bachelor's buttons. 

"Hope in love," he murmured and plucked a few stems. They felt weightless and soft in his hand where with one clench of his fingers he could turn them into meaningless pulp. Like emotions, they too were fragile so he tucked them carefully into his shirt pocket before picking up his mother's garden basket. 

He had some gathering to do. 

~&~ 

The worktable in the Fortress was usually the resting place of various tools: greasy wrenches, rusted files and the occasional broken pipe. Rarely was seen anything that could be considered soft or delicate or the least bit romantic. 

Not so that afternoon as a long array of cut flowers covered it in a rainbow of colors. Bright crimsons and dull yellows, a profusion of green along with the occasional peek of purple, white and orange. Some were a little wilted from overstaying their spring welcome but he could hardly do without the daisies, could he? 

Daisies meant loyal love even in the shadow of secrets, in spite of innocence, and Clark laid them down first in the arrangement. 

Then came the primroses -- they were for yearning, placed beside a batch of white violets, a lover's request for a chance. Gloxinias were next, they represented love at first sight, contrasting sharply with the long dark stems of ivy, stretching out and winding through the bouquet in tendrils of long-lasting friendship. 

He placed purple hyacinths, the flower of apology, next to a single white chrysanthemum, the flower of truth. 

For Clark wasn't good at telling the truth, not in words at least. 

The rest of the bouquet followed quickly. Jonquils for desire, weedy dandelions for faithfulness, honeysuckle for loving in secret, bellflowers for gratitude and a pile of forget-me-nots that nearly overpowered all the rest. 

They meant true love according to everything he'd read and Clark tied off the wild arrangement with a long piece of hemp twine, supposedly impossible to break with bare hands but Clark knew he possessed the power to rip the length into a thousand pieces if he wanted to. 

Just as the recipient of the bouquet could do to Clark's heart. 

He gathered the flowers in his arms before he stepped outside, their sweet smell nearly overpowering. Took a quick look around before discreetly popping the bouquet into the back of the truck. If his parent's saw it they'd ask too many questions, most of which he'd be unable to answer. 

Especially if they saw him put it in the delivery crate labeled "Luthor." 

~&~ 

Molly, the Luthor mansion day maid, didn't blink when Clark asked for a vase, then for some water, then for permission to place the flowers on Lex's desk. Normally, no one touched or changed Lex's sacred altar of business when he was away but she nodded her approval when Clark put the blue vase right in the middle of the polished glass. 

"Very unusual," was all she said when she paid Clark for the produce. "You won't find half of those at the florist, I'd say." 

Okay, maybe she was hinting at something there but Clark pretended not to notice. "No, I don't think so," he said before ducking out the door and waving good-bye. He was in the truck and down the driveway before he chickened out by turning back and taking the flowers away with him. 

Far, far, away. 

He raced to finish the rest of his deliveries then went home to wait by the phone. Lex was supposed to be back early that evening and by seven p.m. Clark's face was already burning. 

"Are you feeling okay, honey?" His mother touched the back of her hand to his forehead. "You're looking a little flushed." 

"I'm fine." A lie and she knew it, but didn't question him any further. He was a teenager, wasn't he? Moodiness and secrecy were his right, if not his duty. 

By eight p.m. he was pacing, unable to keep the nervous energy at bay. The one thing he wanted to do more than anything -- pick up the phone and call Lex -- was the one thing he couldn't possibly do. 

It was killing him by inches. By nine o'clock he was tapping his foot against the coffee table, by ten he was banished to the Fortress for being too annoying for his parents to deal with and by eleven, he held the phone in a sweaty grip for ten minutes before slamming it down so hard the receiver cracked. 

He fell asleep by two in the morning and nightmares haunted him until dawn. 

Nightmares of Lex staring at him with incomprehension, then suspicion, then pity. "I'm very sorry, Clark," said Dream Lex, pushing the flowers over the edge of his desk into what looked like a bottomless pit. "But I haven't a clue what gave you these sorts of ideas. You should leave now, I think." 

Then came the mocking laughter, from all his friends, even his parents joining in before Clark woke up, his head pounding and his cheeks wet. 

Idiot. What an idiot he was and Clark ended up wandering listlessly through the hot Sunday morning, absently doing chores with a much heavier hand than usual. 

"Whoa there, cowboy," cautioned his father, a bag of feed slung over his shoulder. "You know we can't afford to replace anything that gets broken." 

Then maybe you should get another alien donkey to do the work of five, thought Clark bitterly before inwardly wincing and wondering if there was a flower for guilt. "Sorry, Dad. I'll be careful." 

He was rewarded with a weather-beaten grin. "Go see your mother in the garden. She has some sort of message for you. I think it's from Luthor. It's probably a demand for more artichokes, as if he didn't know the season ended weeks ago." 

Clark ran back toward the house so fast the dust clouded behind his feet. "Mom," he said breathlessly and it wasn't from exertion. "Did Lex call?" 

She looked up from the iris patch she was kneeling in, a smudge of dirt on her chin. "Yes, honey, he did. Wants you to meet him by the old Barter's farm at five -- I got the impression he purchased the land yesterday. Says he wants your opinion on it." 

Clark's heart sank, disappointment like a ton of earth on his chest. "Right. Guess I'll wash up and get going then." He paused. "Um, Mom?" 

"Yes, sweetheart?" 

"What's the flower for unrequited love?" 

Martha peered at him from beneath the broad brim of her straw hat, blue eyes dark with concern. "Daffodils." She took off her gardening glove and gently took his hand in hers. "But they're out of season, honey ... so don't worry." 

He had to smile at that. Pictured her wearing a crown of cinquefoil before bending down to kiss her. "Thanks, Mom." 

She smiled, then turned back to her garden where an entire world waited for her touch. 

~&~ 

Clark arrived at Barter's front nine ten minutes early. It wasn't his fault he'd run so fast time itself seemed to have no meaning. A hundred miles per minute he'd bet if he could clock it and suddenly Clark wondered why he bothered at all with flowers and love and other earthly delights. 

They weren't meant for him, the stranger from another world where perfect red roses might be as hated as poison. What could his alien mind understand about beauty except what he'd been taught? Understand about love except what he'd forced himself to feel? 

Too bad the pain of rejection was a universal emotion. 

He saw Lex standing by the Barter's abandoned barn and forced himself to walk slowly: no sudden moves, no running ... no begging. Things were probably bad enough already. 

Strangely, Lex seemed completely at ease. Hands in pockets, black jacket handsomely draped, mysterious grin firmly in place -- he was the picture of relaxed perfection. Same as always. 

Wasn't that just great? "Hey," called Clark, taking a deep breath. He could do this. He could. "So ... is this the latest LexCorp acquisition?" 

"More like a personal project," replied Lex, tilting his head toward the summer fields that sat past the barn. "I need your input about some work I've had done." 

"You've had work done already?" No mention of the flowers, no mention of Clark's humiliating behavior and all was good. Sort of. "That was quick." 

"My schedule suddenly tightened." Lex motioned for Clark to sidestep a dip in the grass. "I came home to an irresistible proposition. You have to move fast in this life, Clark. You snooze, you lose." 

Light laughter, and Clark followed Lex through the darkened barn. "Um," he said, his voice echoing off of the ancient beams. The air was cool and in the darkness he felt soothed. It might be okay yet. Maybe. "This isn't part of the renovation, is it?" 

"No ... not yet," replied Lex, who placed both hands on the huge double door that led to the fields. He stood silent for a moment, fingers spread against the chipped wood. "What I've had done so far is beyond this door. You might say that opening it will lead us into a brand new world." 

"Sounds interesting," Clark said. He had no fear of brand new worlds, or so he wanted to think. "Let's see what you've done." 

Lex pushed the doors asunder and Clark looked out into the fields where, as far as the eye could see, stretched seemingly infinite rows of freshly planted flowers, obviously placed there by a landscaper just hours before. 

A sea of forget-me-nots, surrounded by trails gloxinias and ivy, bushes of primroses, jonquils and honeysuckle. If Clark reached down he could run his hands through a mini-meadow of bellflowers, endless gratitude shining in blue. 

Purple hyacinths were scattered everywhere, randomly, and forgiveness came with them ... for them both. 

Next to him, Clark could _feel_ the beating of Lex's heart, its wild tripping mirrored that of his own and he glanced over to see a man not much older than himself, biting back terror and misgivings, hope and trust and above all, passion beyond measure. 

It was the silent language of love. Beyond even the language of flowers. 

"What do you think, Clark?" Lex was pale and beautiful against a sea of life. "Is it what you want? Could it be a place you'd want to stay?" 

"Yeah," he breathed, reaching out and finding Lex's hand in the gloom. It was trembling, hot and softer than silk. "It's a world I definitely could get used to." 

Lex simply smiled in reply. 

~fin~


End file.
